The fish cleared the water’s surface and sparkled in the sunlight then disappeared, head first, back to the black depths. The fishing pole reacted just like a divining rod, as it tipped and touched the surface pointing out exactly where the fish re-entered. Dale couldn’t believe the exhilaration involved in this wonderful, brand new activity.

He’d made friends with Chuck quite accidentally. Chuck was the first responder when Dale’s compact car had become wedged beneath an 18 wheeler with Dale pinned inside. Chuck’s reassuring voice had kept him calm. Chuck’s skilled hands had saved his life and their friendship was taking him places he’d never considered.

It was while Dale watched the heroic news video on TV at the hospital, that he had decided to thank Chuck personally.

They met at a local pub for drinks. Chuck ordered a draft beer and Dale had a celebratory glass of champagne since his hospital release had been only two days before. Their choices of beverages pretty much described their backgrounds. The odd, yet colorful, tapestry of a wonderful friendship had been started in that meeting. Some would call it a” bromance “…just two guys who really enjoyed each others company.

Dale had offered Chuck a guest membership at his country club. To Dale’s amazement, everyone liked Chuck immediately. He was in one word, genuine, and that transcended all social preconceptions of his worth. Crowds gathered ’round him to listen to stories, in improper grammar, of what he considered “just a job”.

Now off of the lake, Chuck was frying Dale’s prize catch. He was not at all intimidated by social status. In fact, Chuck seemed happily unaware for the most part. Their wives had encouraged their outings and Dale was feeling a weight, greater than that semi, lifted from his spirit.

“Maybe we should invite your buddy Jackson next time old man? I’d love to see him baiting a hook with those pink gloves of his.”

“Here, try the eye. You fellas would pay big money for those if they were served on a plate with capers and a fancy sauce. Go ahead, old man.”

As the sun dropped behind the trees and long shadows reached their retreat, Dale reached for his cell phone. His wife wasn’t going to believe the wild adventure that he was having. There was NO service. He was disconnected.

As Chuck handed him an ice-cold beer, he could see the angst in Dale’s face. He casually reached into an old toolbox and approached him with a hammer. Dale suddenly felt as though it had all been a mistake. He was with a crazy man, a Neanderthal, maybe a serial killer. Why hadn’t he listened, why had he trusted?

Chuck laughed out loud at the sight of his new friend in total panic. What a boob! His work with Dale was far from over, he could tell that for sure.

” I can fix that phone. Let me at it. ”

Later that evening they sat by the campfire and laughed until their sides hurt.

I read a delightful post yesterday. It touched a nerve though. There is no terror greater than the fears of children. As Stephen Edwards points out, childhood fear defies reason. It shakes a kid to the core and follows them like a shadow.

That post of childhood worries brought back memories of fears that my sister had when she was 5 years old.

We grew up in New England yet my sister feared tornadoes. Not a simple fear. Not a rational fear, because tornadoes don’t live in New England. Actually, terror was a more fitting description.

As soon as our skies would darken and thunder rumbled, my sister was overcome. Her trembling was often accompanied by vomiting. Where in the world did her fear come from?

The Wizard of Oz, famed classic for children, was the culprit.

There are many “kids” films that I would not recommend for children and The Wizard of Oz tops my list.

Finding Nemo may have portrayed the real-life likelihood of fish becoming prey BUT I think it is also a film only for kids over 7 years old. The opening segment contains too many ideas better kept from small children. Kids should not be worrying about the mortality of their parents when they are little. Finding Nemo brings up that very subject. Bambi and Land Before Time are also on my “not before 8” list for the same theme. Just because a film is produced by Disney does not mean it is good for children. When you think about the stories brought to movies for the kids of today, the kids of yesterday, could only access them once they were old enough to read them. I therefore recommend being vigilant “pre-screeners” of the content of children’s movies.

We are the guardians of innocence for kids. Let’s help them keep it for as long as possible.

Randolph McMann was too old to switch careers. His elderly mother still hounded him daily about his wasted intellect and shabby attitude.

At 61 years old, he was still a window washer and expected that he would be “laid out” in his white coveralls when he left this world too. Even when he was off duty his wardrobe was the same.

Mom had moved in with him 5 years ago when Dad died. Despite his Irish name, he was a Native American through and through. His mother was a full-blooded Navaho and he was very proud of that lineage. His grandfather had called him “Little Pigeon” because he had enjoyed walking the ledges untethered since he was a kid.

Grandfather’s breath always smelled like vinegar. Randolph asked him repeatedly for a more noble Indian name. He’d hoped for something like, “Walks on the Wind” or “Fearless Falcon”. But Little Pigeon stuck and he continued calling him that until the “bottle” claimed his life.

Today Randolph was at the top of his game you might say. 27 stories above the Las Vegas strip. There was quite a warm wind blowing as he anchored himself to his scaffold and began cleaning. He’d made a very good living as the stereotypical Indian climber. He had no fear of heights even now that the “bottle” was his companion too. The nips rattled in his over-sized pockets as he knelt to grab a scrub brush. He’d emptied three of them before arriving.

He’d never gambled or ran with wild women. His mother’s complaints nagged him though. As he worked in silence, his mind tossed over many missed opportunities. He’d shown a real gift for art and math was so easy for him, in school, that he would skip the class and sit on the roof only to show up for finals.

He concluded that he belonged among the clouds no matter what anyone said when the scaffold tipped suddenly to the right.

“Damned thing. I’d do better without this contraption!” He reached for another nip and downed it while investigating the problem.

His vision suffered miserably once his blood alcohol level rose yet he swung himself upon the ledge and unhooked his “safety strap”.

A nearby fountain had sprayed a mist upon the wind which had settled on that very ledge. Randolph was falling before he even realized.

Luckily, he made it to the pavement without hitting anyone. His final thought was about the safety of others. He never heard the screams and commotion that followed. The man who never had rolled the dice, never even tried, had lost.

When I don’t have a particular post to write about, I enjoy a random set of words to stir my creativity. I have a category devoted to these stories.

Today’s words are:

gang…cloak…hymn…joint…radar…masking tape

Here’s my story:

The driver side window whistled as Dillon drove along the country road at a speed, far beyond, the speed limit. He reasoned that the country cops wouldn’t even have radar since he thought of them as hillbillies with bare feet and IQs of 20. If he had used duct tape to repair the window, it would have been okay. But he’d only found masking tape in the trunk. That was not going to hold. Dillon made a note of this and vowed to add duct tape to his burglary kit.

This whole hazing wasn’t sitting well with him either. The open fields and tranquil setting of the farmland, was slowly having an effect on him. Stealing the car, on behalf of the gang, seemed like fun while in the city, but now, the idea of losing his freedom was unsettling. His surroundings reeked of what he would be missing, if he were captured.

At first, the adrenaline rush he’d experienced was awesome. Now, nerves and regret were closing in on him. Dillon reached into his pocket for the pin joint he’d rolled earlier. Yes, a little smoke would calm him.

As he tried to light it, the tape gave way and the weed went out of the , now open, window. His baseball cap followed.

Dillon took his foot off of the gas. He considered turning around but there was no way he’d find the joint now. The cap wasn’t even his. He let the Pontiac Firebird come to a stop on its own.

The 16-year-old got out and just stood there. The sun covered him in a cloak of warmth he’d almost forgotten existed. It was like a hug, comforting and firm, yet not at all unkind. No punch in the gut followed. He lifted his face and felt a phantom kiss on his cheek.

Dillon was hopelessly lost.

Standing beside the road was an old horse. There was no one in sight on any of the roads that he could view from his position. Meadows with waving grasses were all he could see.

“Where am I?” He whispered to himself.

The horse lifted its head and gave a snort of “hello there”. Dillon didn’t know that horses snorted. Didn’t they say ” neigh” on “Old MacDonald’s Farm” ? He cautiously approached the animal.

“Wow, you’re big dude. Wouldn’t happen to have some grass on ya?” Dillon chuckled for a moment at his clever pun.

He reached his hand over the fence and stroked the animal’s face. It snorted again and he jumped back.

“Listen, I won’t hurt you if you won’t eat me. That a deal big dude?”

It dawned on him, that he no longer was worried about the cops, his gang or anything. The peace that he was wrapped in, right there, right then, was better than any “high” he’d ever felt. Then, he squeezed under the barbed wire and stood beside the beast. It was huge and powerful, yet gentle and friendly. The horse’s pasture was at the bottom of the steepest hill and Dillon decided to climb it so he could see the whole valley.

He patted the Old Gray fellow and, as he did, a layer of dust filled his nostrils.

“C’mon Dusty, let’s have a look.”

At the top, he sat for a long time. As Dusty grazed beside him, an old hymn, his grandma used to sing, came to mind. It filled his head…

“Amazing grace! how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.”

It was in his grandmother’s lap he had heard these words. Remembering them, was as surprising to him as the horse’s gentleness. Strength without anger…power without hurt.

Dillon walked through the night. He was feeling wonderful, no longer afraid of anything. He struggled to remember when, exactly, being afraid had become a constant inside of him.

When daylight broke he hitchhiked into the city. He had already decided that he was going to get his belongings and return to that pasture. Dillon wanted something. He had a goal to work on a farm , if not that one, any farm. The gang would never miss him and certainly would not find him.

RULES for this creative writing exercise: Using the words above, weave a short story in one brief sitting.

My story:

“..Did you ever read about the frog who dreamed of being a king, and then became one? Well except for the names and a few other changes , my story’s the same one…”

“Oh sing it to me, Neil.“

” I am…I said, to no one there…”

Singing as she ran, Joan noticed the time.

“Geez Louise!”

If she was going to take the lead in the marathon, and keep it, she’d have to “kick it up” a notch or three. Running made her free. Not the “run of the mill” free. Flying with angels, free. After a short sprint, her legs operated independently from earthly constraints. She may as well have been on a merry-go-round ‘cuz she felt as though she was standing still as the world spun past.

She recalled what the doctor had said to her after the stroke.

“Better get used to crutches. They’ll be your best friends in time.”

She’d thrown those crutches in the rubbish two years ago today. HA!

“Call the network and give them a scoop Doc…no way!”

Joan was talking out loud to herself again. Talking limited breathing, which limited power and speed, she redoubled her efforts and burst into the lead.

Joan always, well lately, ran while listening to music. She saved “Eye of the Tiger” for the sprint to the finish. So far, it hadn’t let her down. The sun beat upon the course and she thought about chocolate chips cookies fresh from the oven. Where did all these thoughts go when she wasn’t running?

The Rocky Theme escorted her through the tape to victory once more. As she cooled,stretched and walked toward the winner’s circle, the Queen song, “We Are The Champions” was piping into her ears. She paused from her rhythmic cool down routine and shouted aloud, “Damn straight!”

I was in the overcrowded bus station. It was there, that I realized, being in a crowd of strangers was the true definition of loneliness. No one really cares…no one wants to understand…life was a highway and everyone was traveling along, way above, the speed limit. Even while standing still, the energy was overwhelming. Moses appeared beside me. I was happy to see him but said nothing. He wasn’t a talker.

I’d known Moses since I could remember. He had a special way of showing up when I needed him. He was wearing his kimono with the fluorescent green dragon on the back. He just bowed and the crowd separated. Ha! The parting of the Red Sea. I was following my Moses to the promised land.

My cane and I inched forward until I felt the cool surface of an empty counter. I’d had an onion bagel for breakfast and enacted my revenge on the unconcerned clerk with my breath. I accentuated every “H” in my sentence.

“Hey there! Have you time to help my friend and me? Heaven knows he’s a needy fellow.”

“What the hell ails you mister? Your breath reeks and I see only a crazy old man…YOU!”

Ah…the sighted never truly see. Moses took me by the arm and led me away from the bad energy emitted by the ignorant clerk. I could feel him, but now, he seemed to become part of the crowd. The last remnant of him was the green dragon. There was a bright light consuming my companion. I had not seen such light since the flash of the fire that had taken my sight away as a child. There was an explosion then, but now, a warmth wrapped me tight and I was floating. My cane fell away from me as I beheld the most beautiful green valley…

The sirens overpowered the crowd which became momentarily silent as the stretcher passed carrying an anonymous blind man’s body to the city morgue.

My mother stirred memories of my childhood favorite story books. This book came to mind right away. I loved the term babushka for the scarf the old woman wore. Never forgot about it and it often is the first thought I have when I pursue an interest in another culture. If diversity and learning are important to you, sharing this lovely tale with a child is a perfect activity. This tale still gives me the “warm fuzzies”. (Thanks Mom!)

My intellectual curiosity and passion for new ideas is the gift I received from my mom. We recently had an opportunity to share the excitement we have for projects. Although I am considered the “creative” family member, Mom is a true creative person as well and applies her creativity differently but no less effectively.

I am a political animal which comes from Mom too. My husband has a bit to do with the level of my interest though.

Mom, my sister and I share a deep connection with our pets and a fondness for the English language and it’s proper application.

Whenever I have a question and my reaction is,”I must look that up.”, it’s from my mother’s inspired thirst for knowledge.

Her commitment to family and civil responsibilities is the cornerstone for the three “good citizens” that she raised. All of her 3 children have stayed in and been productive members of their hometown.

Mom read to us at early ages and brought us to the library. Family stories were very important to her father and she passed on, that love for a really good story, to me.